Family
by Phire Phoenix
Summary: -One shot- Kai's POV: Reflecting on Tyson's and the Other's thoughts of his bitterness, Kai finally reveals just what it is that has shaped the boy he is today and why indeed he acts so cold towards everything. AU.


Life isn't fair.  
  
It never has been, and it never will.  
  
I have known that since forever.  
  
So why does it hurt?  
  
To think Tyson and the others think I'm cold hearted. Cold Blooded, even. Why should I care, really? They don't know who I am, and they wouldn't understand me. Sometimes, I wish Mr. Dickenson hadn't chosen men to represent Team Japan in the Beyblade Tournament, but then grandfather would have been furious. Why do I even bother?  
  
Those immature boys with their petty problems think they rule the universe. It makes me sick, watching those wise guys pull stunt after stunt. "Lighten up, Kai" They tell me. "Don't be such a wet blanket, Kai" and the worst yet, "Have some fun, Kai." What do they know? But then again, if they did know, they'd probably turn mute. Come to think of it, that'd be a fringe benefit, wouldn't it?  
  
The only one I can stand is Ray, but he, too, has happiness, with that Maria girl. Am I condemned to live amongst nauseatingly cheerful boys who have no idea on the outlooks of life? I may be cold, but I'm a survivor. My parents were scientists, researching Beyblades, albeit not in the cruel fashion of Boris and grandfather. However, their profession made them very busy, so we never really got close. I'd learned to fend for myself. I never brought any of my problems to them after the age of six, and they never enquired. By the young age of seven, one year after starting school, I'd built a shield around myself that none of my classmates could penetrate. They'd learned to avoid me, for their own sakes.  
  
And then my /dear/ parents left me, all alone, not that I hadn't been in the first place.  
  
Mother went first, ensnared by breast cancer. The doctors, the good-for- nothing half wits who examined her assured her that the cysts were normal. Not cancerous, and certainly not fatal. So by the time the dimwits did notice, it was too late. A slow and torturous death, and even in those final months, we didn't get a chance to reconcile. It pained me to see her struggling, weak and feeble, but my defences had been erected so long ago that I didn't know how to lower them. I could only watch helplessly, unable to even comfort her as she slipped into oblivion.  
  
I took up Beyblading at the age of 8, right after Mother's death. That way, I could vent my anger in the dish, and not at people, for despite what anyone said, I wanted to make something of my life. Dranzer came to me almost immediately, and for that I was grateful. For although he couldn't reply, he was my confidant and it almost seemed like he understood me. Yes, I know I speak as though he were human, but nevertheless, it was he who cooled my anger somewhat. Lashing out at others would not help my stubborn ambition. I managed to alienate everyone in the vicinity anyway, by emanating a bitterness that seemed to seep through to their bones. My Father, however, took on a less mature way of coping.  
  
After Mother's death, Father had sunk into a state of depression. He'd lost his life companion and lab partner at the same time. Sometimes I thought that the loss of a partner was more shocking than the loss of a wife, but that is unkind of me. I pen these words in hopes of forgetting them, but I will be denied the bliss of ignorance, this I know. Father took up drinking shortly after that, swinging around two bottles a night. He gave me plenty of allowance; perhaps he felt guilty. Well, that's too late now, isn't Father? You just had to go and kill yourself in a car accident, didn't you?  
  
Then it was Voltaire after that, although he insisted that I call him grandfather. Not that he's ever been a grandfatherly figure to me. In the 8 years during which I had known my parents, he never visited once. He was a complete stranger to me, and the moment I met him, I knew he was to be wary of. I would have much rather stayed at an orphanage, but something in me prevented from escaping.  
  
Perhaps it was the prospect of honing my Beyblade abilities, being able to perfect the sport, my only respite from the real world. Perhaps it was the chance of becoming stronger, and fulfilling my wish of becoming /something/. I did not know then what I wanted to be. Not a scientist, that brought back a pang of pain and misery. But as the years passed and I turned ten, I realised I wanted to be a Beyblade champion.  
  
I stopped being rebellious after the realisation, but only slightly. Especially in the arena, I started working harder to please Voltaire and Boris, so that I might ascend to the next training level. The other kids were jealous, and whispered that the only reason for my quick promotion was that I was Voltaire's grandson. I let them think their foolish thoughts, they are of no matter to me.  
  
By the time I turned eleven, I had finished all of Voltaire's pathetic program, and beaten opponents with twice my experience. That was when Voltaire let me in on his sick little plan, still without telling me about the artificial bit beasts. I wished then that I didn't have to participate. But it was too late to back out now. Since that time, I've come a long way with the Bladebreakers, beating the competition, gathering information about other bit beasts and acting the docile grandson for everyone to see.  
  
Even with my hopes of becoming a champion having been fulfilled, there are times I feel lonely, something that can't be cured by Tyson's incessant chattering or the Chief's constant analogies. Something longing for, well, a parent.  
  
Psychiatrists would call me hungry for attention if they ever had the chance to examine my case. With good reason.  
  
Being scientists, my parents were always too busy, too busy for everything. When I had been younger, I had not realised the fact that their research appeared so much more important to them than I did. I had proudly brought forth every little accomplishment, expecting praise, like any child would. But I quickly lost that innocence.  
  
"Not now, Kai" "Can't you see we're busy, Kai?" "Maybe later, Kai" "Kai, stop being so demanding" "Can't you go play, Kai?"  
  
Those phrases were the most I ever heard from my parents, apart from the occasional 'Good morning' and 'Good night' I was five. Five! The age of blissful happiness, the age of joy, of having fun, of being carefree. Yet a shadow fell across my small shoulders as I was constantly ignored by the two people whom I trusted most in the world. Call me demanding, call me hungry for attention, call me a maniac, but you can't deny the fact that a small child can expect love from their parents.  
  
Did I ever get that?  
  
I don't think so.  
  
It seems like they never understood me, that they didn't even know who I was, apart from a name. I saw them constantly, for they worked at a lab my father had constructed in the family basement, but that doesn't mean I saw their faces. They were always bent over some sort of experiment or other, not looking up even when I called repeatedly. Is this being demanding? Is wanting a bit of attention demanding? If so, then I would say that the orphans in the orphanage were spoiled. At least they had someone to take care of them.  
  
When I had a pressing need for the bare necessities, such as clothes, food and hygiene, I was always afraid to ask. The look of annoyance and resignation on their faces scared me no end. And it is so that I learned at an early age to take care of myself.  
  
And yet, and yet, I was happy for their presence. When I was scared or sad or angry, which occurred quite often, I would grab my little blanket and my teddy bear and sleep on the couch in the basement. They ignored me as always, but it made me feel more comfortable to be around them. I had never heard a "Go to bed, Kai" from them, let alone a bedtime story, but the familiar clinking of test tubes against clamps had become my lullaby, and the sound of lightning fast typing was like my nightly story.  
  
I didn't know my parents, and I'm not sure I wanted to get to know them. All I know is that no matter what, I am glad that they gave birth to me. And in spite of the shadow that separated us emotionally, I love my family.  
  
For that is what they are, and that is what Voltaire or Boris will never be.  
  
Family.  
  
And I love them with all my heart. Even in death  
  
Author's Notes: Ok, I know that Kai grew up in the abbey, and that he's about twelve or thirteen now. For the sake of the story, I altered it slightly so that he went to the abbey at the age of eight, and only spent four years there. Sorry about this. I don't own Beyblade or anything related to it. 


End file.
